The Words in His Heart
by magfreak
Summary: Tom has a speech impediment growing up, which he eventually overcomes before arriving at Downton. It manifests again when he steps into the drawing room to face the family with Sybil.
1. Chapter 1

_New story! This one is in response to this anon prompt I got on tumblr:_

I know you must get bombarded with fic requests, so please don't feel like u have to write this; it's just something that is very personal to me and would love to make people more aware of the problem. As a child, I had a stutter. It was terrible. I was bright, but found it difficult to communicate. With family I was fine, but it was when I went to school or got nervous that it came out. I always wondered how Tom would have dealt with that. He is very confident NOW, but how would he handle it coming out as an adult. Maybe he's never told Sybil about it, but it comes out when they're confronting her family? Disabilities were never really talked about then, but Sybil would be so sweet and compassionate about it, and what a great way to show people that you can get over it. I still stammer when i'm nervous, but I have learned some great techniques to control it. I know this is a "serious" idea, but it could also be cute as well as educating.

_I intended for it to be a one-shot when I started, but it was getting long so I decided to post it in pieces. I have the first three chapters done, and I'll be posting them (and the last two) in relatively quick succession. Writing someone with a speech impediment has been a challenge, and I've tried to be as sensitive to the issue as possible. Obviously, how people who stutter/stammer are seen and treated has changed considerably since the Edwardian era. How I've depicted the Branson family may seem unrealistic to some, but in every universe I believe that Tom grew up in a loving environment, and that family support is at the foundation of his confidence and his beliefs as an adult. _

_The story begins just before Tom walks into the drawing room to make his announcement with Sybil. You can assume that Tom and Sybil's story has unfolded as it did in canon. Tom's background will be revealed as the story goes along. _

_Last thing: I couldn't have written this story without the help of the awesome babageneush, so this is dedicated to her. _

_Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Standing in the middle of the small sitting area in the chauffeur's cottage Tom looked down at his mismatched suit and laughed.

It would have to do. There was nothing else that was his own for him to wear. The pants that had come with the jacket had snagged on a nail in the chest of drawers in his bedroom his first month on the job. He hadn't bothered to try to mend them. He could have bought a new suit, but he preferred saving his money. And now that she'd said yes, he was glad to have done so. They were going to need every penny to get settled in Ireland.

Tom thought again of that magical moment in the garage when Sybil had come to him, much like she had been doing for months—years, really. But instead of demurring and giving him a coy look that said more than she could or would, Lady Sybil Crawley finally spoke aloud what had been burning inside her waiting to be said for too long. It wasn't all plain sailing after that. Her sisters had seen to it, but the forced waiting had been good for them. Instead of getting swept up in their long-repressed dreams and desires, they'd made careful plans. They'd made arrangements with his mother, reluctant though she'd been to help them. He'd found a job, a _real_ job that would demand much of him but that offered promise in return, one that did not require deference or servitude or bowing to those he did not respect.

Lord Grantham was a fair employer, and not a bad man. Nevertheless, if not for Sybil, Tom might have left long ago, not because Downton Abbey was a terrible place to work, but because it was a dead end. For him _and_ for Sybil. But no matter what Tom might say to the family tonight, he knew Robert would not give his blessing. Of all the possible outcomes tonight, Tom expected at least that much. He knew Sybil hoped for it despite her own efforts to prepare him and herself for the absolute worst, but Tom knew better. Even so, he and Sybil had resolved that her family deserved the truth, and there was no going back now.

He heard the clock in the corner of the room chime the bottom of the hour.

It was time.

Tom pulled on the sleeves of his shirt beneath the jacket. He thought of his older sister Caitlin and the way she used to tug on the shoulders of his jacket before school as she reminded him to mind the nuns. He smiled and shook the thought of her out of his head. He'd see her soon enough.

He stepped out of the cottage, walked through the empty garage and started up the gravel path to the front of the house. He glanced at the light above the door into the servants hall. There was nobody in the yard, which meant the staff were all having dinner. Tom wondered whether anyone would make note his absence. Despite Miss O'Brien's early protestations, he'd made a habit of eating with the staff, doing so more often than he didn't. It didn't matter, though. Not on this night. They'd learn where he'd gone to soon enough.

As Tom made it to the front door, he felt his heart begin to race. He took a deep breath. As he reached out for the doorknob, he saw that his hand was shaking. He took another deep breath.

"In a week, we'll be in Dublin," he said aloud. "In a week, we'll be home."

He turned the knob and breathed a sigh of relief to see that it gave as he pushed. _Mr. Carson won't be happy that Thomas failed to lock the front door_, he thought with a laugh. His heart was still racing, but he could feel the adrenaline begin to pulse through him. He wouldn't turn back, not when everything that he dreamed of was on the other side of that door.

He walked through, and barely taking a breath, he marched determinedly into the main hall toward the drawing room. The door to it was closed. Tom took one more breath before opening it and stepping inside.

Immediately, he felt all their eyes on him. He looked around the room for her, but for a moment everything blurred together. He took another breath and spoke.

"I'm . . . I'm h—I'm . . ."

He closed his eyes. _Not here. Please. Not now._

"Branson," he heard Robert say. "What in heaven's name are you doing up here? Is there something the matter?"

Another breath. He opened his eyes again and finally their eyes met and he opened his mouth to speak again, not to the room, but to her.

"Sybil?"

**XXX**

**Ireland, 1894**

_"So there's nothing physically wrong with him?" _

_From his spot beneath the kitchen table, 5-year-old Tommy could hear the sigh his mother, Claire, let out as she considered her husband's question. Tommy was pushing an old wooden toy train back and forth, but his eyes were on Colin Branson's feet as he paced the floor, as if looking for the answer that continued to evade them._

_Claire was standing in front of the stove, stirring the stew her daughter, Caitlin, had made for dinner while Claire had spent the afternoon taking her youngest son to see yet another doctor. It was the fourth one they'd been to this year, but the answers were always the same. _

_"There's no medicine for a stammer."_

_"He could talk normally if he wanted. He just has to try."_

_"He's backward—nothing can be done about that."_

_There was no need for Claire to stir the stew. It was done and cooked well. Caitlin was only ten, but she already knew her way around the kitchen. Still, Claire needed to be moving her hands, to be doing something to release the nervous energy that she'd stored waiting all afternoon for the doctor to see them. _

_"He said what they all said," she answered, finally. "So don't ask me to take him to another."_

_"And what about school?" Colin asked._

_"What do you mean about school? He'll start this year, just like the rest of them."_

_"But what'll the nuns say? Suppose they send him home 'cause they think he's not right in his brain?"_

_"Well, then _I_ will tell them there's nothing wrong with his brain," Caitlin said firmly, coming into the kitchen._

_Tommy smiled at the sound of her voice. She was so sure of herself. Even for one so young, Caitlin always knew what needed to be said and did so in a determined cadence. Tommy, by contrast, had a head full of words, but for reasons that nobody knew, his lips could barely get them out, so he usually just didn't speak at all. _

_"You know better than the doctors, do ya, lass?" Colin asked, a smirk coming over his face. She was his only girl, and her father's favorite, and as such got away with much more cheek than the boys did. _

_"The doctors haven't given any good answers," Caitlin said, putting her hands on her hips. "They don't know Tommy. He knows his numbers, and he can read already. Better than Kieran, Michael and Sean all put together."_

_Colin laughed and bent down on one knee to look under the table. "So you're clever one, are you boy?"_

_Tommy looked down at his train and shrugged. _

_"Oh, leave him alone," Claire said, wiping her hands. Pointing to Caitlin, she said. "You, go fetch your brothers for dinner."_

_Caitlin did as she was told, but not before bending down to ruffle Tommy's hair beneath the table._

_"Tommy," Colin said, standing back up, "Come help your mother set the table."_

_The young boy crawled out from under the table and walked over to his mother, who was holding a stack of bowls for him to take. Tommy held out his hands to take them from her. Very carefully, he walked back to the table and began setting the bowls in their spots one at a time. When he got to the head of the table, where his father was already sitting, Colin put his hands on his young son's shoulders._

_"You don't like to talk much, do you, son?"_

_Tommy shook his head._

_"Is it because you can't get the words to come out right?"_

_Tom bit his lip and looked down, then gave a small nod._

_Colin sighed and pulled him into his arms. "I reckon that's all right. Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding."_

_Tom pulled away to look at his father. "What . . . what, mmmwhat's it, um . . .what's it mmmmean?"_

_Colin winked. "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt." _

_Tommy laughed and his father, warmed by the sound, pulled him into another hug. "Now go wash up for dinner."_

_Colin looked up to Claire, who had been watching them as she leaned on the kitchen sink. "What kind of life is he going to have?" he asked._

_Claire turned back to the pot and moved it over to the center of the table. "I don't know, but there's no sense in worrying about what's going to come. It'll come whether we like it or not."_

_Colin scratched his head. "Maybe we shouldn't coddle him. If discipline is what he needs, we should force him to talk. Having him recite lines until he gets them right."_

_"We'll do no such thing!" Claire said smacking her husband on the head with her ladle. "His life will be hard enough—I'll not have you make it worse by being cruel to the poor boy. He'll talk when he's good and ready."_

_"And if he never talks?"_

_"Then, praise be, I'll have one less person in this house to ask to keep quiet."_

_Colin laughed and smacked her on the bottom._

_A few minutes later, the entire Branson clan—mother, father, four boys and one girl—held hands as they said grace. _

Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.

_Tom usually just moved his lips, but on this night he recited the now familiar words along with his family. He'd spoken softly, but he'd gotten through the prayer without any stumbling. From his seat at the end of the table, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all digging into their stew without thought to him or anything else. He smiled to himself and took his first spoonful into his mouth. _

* * *

_Note: This quote from Colin—"Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding."—is from the Bible, Proverbs 17:28. And this one—"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."—has been attributed to both Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you so much to all of you who have reviewed, followed and favorited this fic already! I feel extra nervous with this story because I do hope that I am treating the issue with respect and a measure of realism, so I really appreciate all of your comments. Keep sending them!_

_This chapter, like the last, will begin in the "present" time, picking up right where the story left off and then move on to another flashback. Another note will follow the chapter. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Sybil looked at Tom for what felt, to him, like an eternity but what was really only a brief moment, before standing up and walking over to him. Her steps were slow and determined, but Tom noticed a tension in the way she was holding her hands together, as if she were trying to keep nerves in check.

She looked down as she approached and made almost as if she was going to walk past him, her left shoulder coming close to touching his right when she'd stopped.

"I don't think this is such a good idea," she whispered, looking at the door he'd just walked through. "We mustn't worry Granny."

Tom felt his heart leap into his throat. She had stood at this precipice before and balked. But even in her retreat she had said that she would stay true to him and he'd believed her. He believed her still. Her expression, when her eyes finally met his, did not suggest doubt. But, once again, loyalty to her family was goading her into questioning, not her feelings perhaps, but her willingness to act on them.

Would she abandon him here, in _this _room, as she had at the inn?

Tom looked past Sybil and into the faces of her family, the truth now beginning to dawn on them before it had even been spoken.

"You . . . you . . . you've mmasked mmme . . . to come mmmand—"

Tom clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.

Sybil put her hand on his forearm. "Tom?"

He opened his eyes at her quiet plea and looked at her again. Her eyes asking a question she'd never had to ask before. Not once, not in the many years that he had loved her had she seen him—_heard _him—like this.

_Why didn't I tell her? _Tom thought, holding his breath in an effort to fight back tears.

They were used to conveying emotion to one another in silent, stolen glances, but there was so much more to say now. Too much. And his words were failing him, at this of all possible moments. Their audience, growing more tense by the second and awaiting answers to different questions, wasn't going to let them.

_Please don't let this change things. Please don't let this change things._

"Is there something wrong?" She asked quietly.

"Is there?" He asked in response.

Sybil looked over her shoulder for a moment, then back at him, the love in her eyes a salve to his nerves and his too-fast-beating heart.

"No."

He continued to look only at her. "You've asked me to come, and I've . . . I've . . . I've . . . I have come."

Sybil nodded. Then, she let go of his arm and turned so they could face her family together.

**XXX**

**Ireland, 1898**

_"We all had to do it!" Sean Branson yelled at his sister. "I don't see why he should get special treatment!"_

_"It's not special treatment," Caitlin yelled back. "It's harder for him than the rest of us."_

_"Oh, right," Sean said rolling his eyes. "Let him do everything at his own pace. You realize when he's gone from this house, nobody's going to let him do anything at his own pace. You're only setting him up to fail."_

_"HEY!"_

_Both Caitlin and Sean turned to see Tommy standing in the doorway to the room he shared with Sean and Michael, who along with Kieran, was now old enough to work alongside their father on the farm and usually was out with him until dinner. Kieran had moved out the previous year, into a small flat he took with two friends to be nearer to town, so Tommy had finally been allowed to the cot in his sister's room and moved in with his older brothers._

_"I, I . . . I . . ."_

_"Oh, just spit it out!" Sean yelled._

_"SHUT UP!" Caitlin screamed back pushing Sean down onto the floor. "Leave him alone!"_

_"STOP!" Tommy came into the room and tried to help Sean up, but Sean fought him off and stood up on his own. Once Sean was up, Tommy leaned over and spit on Sean's shoes._

_"There, I spit it out," Tommy said. "Are you . . . . mmm, um, mmmhappy?"_

_Caitlin pulled Tommy by back toward her by the shoulders in an effort to save him from the pounding that she was sure was coming. But instead of taking a swing, Sean stared at his little brother for a long moment and then burst out laughing._

_Tommy and Caitlin looked at each other, wondering what had come over Sean. When the latter had finally collected himself, he looked back and forth between them and said, "See! You don't need to keep babying him. He can take care of himself."_

_Caitlin crossed her arms and looked away. She never liked losing an argument. "He's got to stand up in front of the entire school and lead this week's rosary. What's he supposed to do if he can't get through it? Spit on everyone?"_

_Tommy and Sean both laughed, and Caitlin herself couldn't help but crack a smile._

_"Every kid has to do it once," Sean insisted. "If Tommy wants to be treated the same as everyone, he's got to do it too."_

_"He'sm, um, mmright," Tommy said quietly._

_Caitlin sighed. "All right, let's go practice it then."_

_Caitlin took Tommy by the hand and pulled him into her room. She went to her chest of drawers and from the bottom drawer pulled out her mother's old rosary._

_Handing it to him, she asked, "You've got them memorized? The mysteries?"_

_Tommy nodded and went to her bed to sit down._

_"Oh, no, you don't!" she said with a smile. "You'll be reciting it while standing up in the middle of the yard with the sun beating down on you. I can't have the sun in my room, but at least you can practice standing up."_

_Tommy rolled his eyes as he pushed himself off the bed and walked to stand in the middle of the room, facing the door. Caitlin sat down cross-legged in front of him, and as she and Tommy made the sign of the cross, Sean came into the room and sat down next to Caitlin. He crossed himself too, and the sight of it made Tommy smile. He knew how much Sean hated praying the rosary._

_Tommy looked at the worn beads in his hands, and took the cross into his right hand to start._

_He began with the Apostles' Creed._

_"I . . . I . . . believe in mmGod, the Father Alm-almm-almmmighty, Creator of heaven and mmmearth; and in Jesus Christ, mm, His . . . His . . . His only Son, our mmmLord;_

_Who was conceived mmmby the Holy Spirit, mmmborn of the Virgin, um, um, mmMary, suffered under mmmPontius Pilate, was crucified, d- d- mmmdied, and was mmmburied. He descended into hell; the third day He mmmarose again from the dead. He ascended into mmmheaven, and sits at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to, um, um, judge the living and the mmmdead."_

_Caitlin and Sean, who'd been hanging on his every word, careful not to react every time he stammered, joined him for the response, "I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. Amen."_

_Sean smiled when they finished the response. "Hey! You said that same as us!"_

_Tommy shrugged. "You know that it com-com-commmes and, um, goes."_

_"But if we're all saying it together, you're all right?" Sean asked._

_"I suppose," Tommy answered._

_"So why don't you just pretend we're always saying it with you?"_

_"It's not that easy," Tommy said. "I don't really um, um, mmknow, when it's going to happen."_

_"He's right, though," Caitlin said. "You do better with us than at school."_

_"That's mmmbecause you're you."_

_"Well, anyway, get on with it," Sean said. "We're going to be here all afternoon as it is."_

_Caitlin gave Sean a shove, but Tommy laughed. He liked it when his brothers teased him. It made him feel like he was one of them, like he wasn't so different that they couldn't relate to him, like he wasn't the freak for whom his mother had to make excuses. He, like Caitlin and Sean, knew that Claire had gone to the school with them that morning to ask the nuns that Tommy be excused from having to lead the rosary—a "privilege" afforded to every student of his year at least once during the year._

_Tommy knew it would be hard and that the other kids would hate him for taking twice as long and would tease him for not being able to say recitations that to them came like second nature. But that humiliation seemed at times easier to handle than the reminder that he wasn't like everyone else and couldn't be expected to measure up. He didn't know what answer his mother had been given, but he knew he'd do it anyway._

_Tom took a deep breath and began the next prayer, "Our mmfather . . ."_

**ooo**

_He was about halfway through the rosary—and swaying slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other—when his mother made it home from her afternoon of delivering the laundry she'd spent the previous day washing._

_"And what are you three doing?" She asked as she came into Caitlin's room._

_Sean turned and answered for them, "Tommy's practicing for next week." _

_"Unless . . . were you able to get him out of it?" Caitlin asked._

_Claire looked past her daughter, and without answering her question, asked Tom, "Which decade are you on?"_

_"The third," he answered. "Do we need to um, um, mmst- mmstop for dinner?"_

_Claire smiled. "No, we've plenty of time for that." She sat down next to her two other children. "Go on."_

* * *

_In case you're wondering where I got the idea that kids would be required to lead a rosary in front of their whole school, that was the practice at the Catholic school I attended. It was exhausting and embarrassing for all of us. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you, thank you, thank you, everyone, for the lovely comments. I'm glad you are enjoying the story. Quick note: I didn't quite clarify in the last chapter, but Tom was nine years old in the flashback. I've got the last two chapters outlined, but I'm still working on writing them, so I'm not sure if I'll have the next chapter posted tomorrow or Sunday. Kind of depends on how much time I have to write tomorrow. _

_In any case, enjoy!_

* * *

"Would someone please tell me what is going on, or have we all stepped through the looking glass?" Violet asked looking around the room.

Tom felt Sybil tense again, but he could tell that it was anger now, not fear nor doubt, that was radiating from her. It didn't exactly calm his nerves—this was going to be a fight—but it gave him strength. _Emboldened _him.

He cleared his throat. "Your grandmmm grandmm, um . . . the Dowager Countess has as much, um, right to know, um, as mmm mmmanybody else."

"Why don't I find that reassuring?"

"Because stepping through the looking glass means that planting the wrong kind of flower merits beheading," Sybil said, surprising even herself by the sharpness of her tongue. But Sybil could see in Violet's eyes and her cryptic choice of words that her grandmother knew exactly what was going on. "You're not that cruel, are you granny? Would you punish me for choosing a different bloom than has been dictated?"

"Sybil, what is the meaning of this!?" Robert asked, his voice just short of a shout.

Sybil looked at Tom, then around the room. Edith was avoiding her gaze, and Mary's eyes kept going back and forth between Sybil and Tom, as if Mary were asking her sister to look—_really look_—at her choice and reconsider. But all that did was irk Sybil further. Mary had resigned herself to a life away from the one she loved and knew the pain that came with such a choice.

_How can she wish that pain on me?_ Sybil thought.

In silent confirmation to her sister that she'd made up her mind, Sybil took Tom's hand and felt him breathe a sigh of relief at the act.

"Tom and I have fallen in love," Sybil began. She bit her lips as she saw her mother turn away, tears welling in Cora's eyes, but Sybil pressed on. "I know you won't approve, and whether you believe me or not, that makes me truly sad. We don't see eye-to-eye on many things, papa, but it has never been intention to make you angry. This is what's happened and you must accept it."

Robert's face was red with anger. "I will accept no such thing!"

"Well, don't, then!" Sybil responded sharply. "Whatever you choose to think, the fact remains that we're going to marry."

Robert looked away from his daughter to Tom. "You will leave this house at once."

Robert may well have been shooting actual daggers from his eyes, but Tom did not look away. The two men stared each other down for a long moment, before Tom finally spoke again.

"I, um, um, there's a job mmmwaiting for mmme, um, in Dublin," he said, trying to calm himself as much as possible so he could be heard clearly. "I'll be a mm, um, a . . a journalist."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing!" Sybil answered before Tom could get a word out.

"It's obviously not nothing," Robert said, starting to pace about the room, but gesturing accusingly at Tom. "He can barely form a word! And _this_ is the man you think will provide for you?"

Tom shook with frustration. Sybil squeezed his hand with both of hers in an effort to calm him, but his mind was going in too many directions, like a runaway train veering off the tracks with no hope of containment.

Tom cleared his throat, trying to will himself to speak as he knew he could. "I um, um, mmmay seem mmsmall to you, Lord Grantham, but mmmy work in in serv . . . in . . ." Tom paused and looked down for a moment to take a breath. He felt Sybil squeeze his hand again and then met Robert's eyes again. "I . . . I am, um, not defined by the mmmwork I've done . . . for you or, um, anyone."

Robert looked away in disgust. "I will not stand the presence of this stammering, halfwitted—"

"PAPA!"

"ROBERT!"

The tension in the room shifted as all eyes went to Mary and Matthew, who'd cried out simultaneously in an effort to cut Robert off and prevent him from continuing a rant that both believed he, once removed from the heat of the moment, would come to regret.

For one thick moment, Mary and Matthew looked at one another. Mary had stood up when she'd reprimanded her father, so when she looked down, away from Matthew, her eyes met Lavinia's. Once and forever the obstacle to her happiness.

Suddenly, Mary felt an urgency to fight on Sybil's behalf, if not her own, for the possibility of true love in marriage. Mary's choice would have been happily welcome, of course, but fate had conspired against the union. In Sybil and Tom's case, however, fate—in Sybil having had but one season, in the condition that kept Tom from war—pushed them together and it was only the will of the family, and Sybil's selfless love for them, that had stood in their way for so long. Thinking of this, Mary looked at Sybil again and felt shame.

She made the decision, then, not to be the obstacle that stood between her youngest sister and happiness.

"Please, papa," Mary said. "You don't know what you're saying."

Robert let out a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, and you do?"

"You're angry, and you have a reason to be," Mary said calmly. "But this is not a rash decision that Sybil has made. I know."

"_We _know," Edith added quietly from her seat on the sofa. "Mary's right. Sybil hasn't made this decision lightly."

Robert's anger rose again. "What do you mean, you _know_?"

**XXX**

**Ireland, 1904**

_Tom looked up from the book over to the older gentleman in the armchair on the other side of the hearth and smiled hearing his consistent snore. _

_The groom's cottage was small but more than enough room for two who lived as sparsely as John Flanagan and his 15-year-old apprentice. The sitting room was furnished with only two chairs, which faced the fireplace. Every night after dinner, once the horses had been looked in on for the last time and the carriages cleaned, Mr. Flanagan would build a fire and Tom would read aloud from one of a surprisingly large collection of books Mr. Flanagan kept in his room—the only luxury the man had allowed himself in nearing on 50 years in service. It rarely took more than four pages before Mr. Flanagan was asleep, but Tom always read on._

_Sometimes, when it was a particularly intriguing novel, he read on out of curiosity._

_Sometimes, when it was an engaging historical account or political tract, he read on out of a desire to know more._

_Sometimes, when neither was the case, he simply read on out of habit._

_But he always read on. Because when he read aloud the words of others there was no stammer. _

_He'd been living with Mr. Flanagan for almost three years now, and he never tired of hearing his own voice unencumbered by such a capricious disability—what he would sound like always if he could only manage master it. Reading by the fireside was his favorite part of the day, and when in the midst of it, Tom looked forward to a time when he could do so for an audience that was not just a crotchety old groom, but his wife and children._

_It hadn't been the intention of his parents to take Tom out of school at so young an age, but the rent had become to much to stay on at Delderfield, and despite his stammer, Tom had proven so clever that even at age 12 there was little left for the nuns to teach him. The older Branson boys had already left for Dublin and the promise of work away from the unforgiving terrain they'd farmed all their lives, while Caitlin found a position as a cook at a seaside hotel in Galway. So after taking stock of the life that was left for them and for Tommy on the estate, Colin and Claire Branson chose to follow their boys to Dublin. Before doing so, however, they accepted the advice of an old, trusted friend and left their youngest in the care of someone from whom he could learn a useful trade and in whom he'd find something of a kindred spirit. _

_John Flanagan had stammered as a child himself. The son of a butler, he'd been expected to follow in his father's footsteps, but his father was exacting and unforgiving and proud. When the time came, he relegated John to outdoor work rather than making him a hallboy. And John, having grown up around people who never failed to judge and ridicule his physical failings, came to prefer the company of the horses. So even though, as an adult, he'd left his childhood affliction behind, the work of a groom, the solitude of his cottage and the company of his books all suited him fine. _

_Upon meeting Tom Branson, John Flanagon could see that life had already been kinder to the boy than it had been to him. He could also see that Tom was meant for more than the life of a groom. For now, though, they were all each other needed: a friend who understood and who liked to read._

_After freshening his tea, Tom sat down to read aloud again. Mr. Flanagan continued snoring into the side of his armchair. _

_"The peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is, that it is robbing the human race; posterity as well as the existing generation; those who dissent from the opinion, still more than those who hold it. If the opinion is right, they are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for truth: if wrong, they lose, what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer perception and livelier impression of truth, produced by its collision with error—"_

_An urgent knock on the door interrupted Tom. He looked over at Mr. Flanagan who had woken at the sound._

_"Well, go answer it," the old man said, his voice still heavy with sleep. "And let's brace ourselves. Only bad news comes at this hour."_

_Tom walked over to the door and Mr. Flanagan's words rang in his ears as he saw his brother Kieran on the other side of it. _

What's happened? _The question got stuck on the tip of Tom's tongue, but there was no real need to ask it anyway. The expression on his brother's face, the way he was fidgeting with his hat said it all._

_"It's Da," Kieran said quietly. "Go get your things."_

_Tom turned and saw Mr. Flanagan behind him. "Go, quickly," Mr. Flanagan said. "I'll make your excuses with the family tomorrow."_

_A quarter of an hour later, the two brothers were seated side-by-side in the motor that Tom knew belonged to the family that employed his brother as a chauffeur. _

_"So, um, are you going to tell me, um, what's wrong?" Tom asked after having sat for the first part of the ride in silence._

_"He collapsed at the factory—heart attack, the doctor said. He's hanging on, but barely. They don't know if he'll last the week."_

_Tom's jaw tightened in anger. "He's too old, too, um, weak for that kind of work. He shouldn't have, um . . . he shouldn't have been there in the first place."_

_Kieran looked at his younger brother from the side of his eyes. "He put all he had in buying that damn house. There's only so much laundry mam can do, and it's not enough to keep them both fed."_

_"I told him to take part of my wages, but he wouldn't listen."_

_Kieran laughed. "You think he's ever taken what I've offered? Or Sean or Michael or Catie?" He's a stubborn old fool, but he wants us to have better. What father do you know would take food from the mouth of his children?"_

_Tom sighed. "Not Colin Branson."_

_Kieran turned for a moment to look at his brother. "You sound good . . . better than I've ever heard you."_

_Tom gave a small smile. "It's the old man. He makes me read to him every night. It's helped."_

_"How?"_

_Tom shrugged. "I don't know." He thought for a moment, then added, "In, um, my work, I don't have to talk much, um, unless it's . . . um, him or someone else on staff. So I don't have to talk, um, unless I want to."_

_They drove quietly for a few minutes, but Tom, feeling an easy, reflective confidence stirring inside him, broke the silence again. "You know how the doctors mam took me to all said it was in my head?" Tom asked. "I think they were right."_

_"What? That's ridiculous, Tommy."_

_"No, I don't mean that I can control it or stop it, if it happens. I mean that . . . um, if I'm nervous or angry or agitated, it gets worse. If I'm, um, scared too, and when I was small I was always scared of what would happen if I opened my mouth. I was scared of what people would say or how they would, um, mmmsee me. And the fear just built, um, on itself. Now, I know my own mind, and . . . I'm I'm mminterested in things. I'm mmpolitical. I have opinions. I still hit a wall sometimes, and I have to get around it, but, um, I know that I can. Do you understand?"_

_Kieran laughed. "So now that you're a cocky little shit who thinks he knows everything, you can talk without tripping over your own tongue?"_

_Tom laughed too. "Something like that."_

_"How do you like the work?"_

_Tom sighed. "It's easy . . . boring. The old lady's son brought his 1903 Renault when he came to stay last month." _

_Kieran smirked. "Oh yeah?"_

_"Nicer than this contraption," Tom said with a laugh._

_Kieran ran his hands over the steering wheel. "Don't laugh at the old girl. She gets where she needs to go."_

_"Um, mmKieran?"_

_"What?"_

_"Will you, um . . . will you teach me to drive it?"_

_Kieran glanced at his brother. "You want to learn to drive?"_

_"It's just, um, well, um, he mentioned that he'll like get a newer model next year, and, um, leave the 1903 on the estate. Mr. Flanagan doesn't want anything to do with it, but, um, I could offer myself as the person who'll take care of it . . ."_

_"You'd have to talk to the family, if you were the chauffeur."_

_Tom rolled his eyes. "Fine, mmmdon't . . . don't teach me."_

_"When did you hear me say I wouldn't?"_

_Tom looked over at his older brother. "I can do it."_

_Kieran smiled. "I know you can. We'll do it when I drive you back."_

_It took almost two hours, but Tom and Kieran finally made it to the hospital where Colin Branson lay surrounded by his wife and two sons. Kieran had explained on the way that Caitlin had been telegrammed at her job in Galway and, though she'd promised to leave on the next train to Dublin, she was not likely make it to her father's bedside until the morning. _

_A teary-eyed Claire came over and hugged Tom tightly upon seeing him. Without a word, she pulled Tom over and sat him in the chair next to Colin that she had just vacated. Tears came into Tom's eyes as he watched his father take shallow breath after shallow breath as he slept, teetering on the edge of life and death. He looked worn and haggard, more aged than a man of 50 years should. _

_It was just past noon the following day when Colin Branson passed away, surrounded by those he loved, the only witnesses to his generosity and strength of spirit. His daughter arrived just in time to say goodbye. _

* * *

_The passage that Tom reads aloud to Mr. Flanagan is from "On Liberty" by John Stuart Mill._


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing. I'm so happy that you've all liked this story and accepted the possibility that Tom may have had this kind of background._

_This chapter is the last part of the drawing room confrontation, and the last flashback, which takes place at Downton. The last chapter will just be Tom and Sybil immediately after they leave the room, which will be their first chance to talk about Tom's speech impediment and why he chose to keep it to himself. It's been fun posting this one in pieces. Thank you all for indulging me._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

A fuming Robert looked back and forth between his two oldest daughters.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU _KNOW_?!"

Mary, growing irritated at her father's lack of composure, answered bluntly, "I hoped it would blow over. I didn't want to split the family when Sybil might still wake up."

After she spoke, Mary looked from Robert to Sybil and shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly. Sybil sighed. It was an honest answer and Sybil couldn't fault her sister for it—neither of the two—even if she wished they could better understand why she wanted what she wanted.

Robert turned back to Tom, "And all this time, you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping and seducing my daughter behind my back?"

Tom's jaw tightened. "I don't . . . I don't, um, um, I don't—"

"You don't belong here," Robert said angrily turning away. "And you don't deserve—"

"I DON'T BOW AND SCRAPE!" Tom yelled out, causing Robert to whip back toward him. Tom hadn't meant to yell, but he felt some satisfaction in having done so and in finally having spoken as he'd intended. "And I've not, um, I've not seduced mmmanyone," he added. His outburst had released some of his nervous energy, and he was finally feeling a bit more in control. "Give, um, your mmdaughter some, um, um, credit for . . . for knowing her own mind."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "How dare you speak to me in that tone. You will leave at once."

"Oh, Papa!" Sybil finally cut in, her own anger at her father boiling over inside her.

"This is a folly!" Robert said, turning back to the rest of the family, with a humorless, uneasy laugh. "A ridiculous, juvenile madness!"

His eyes finally landed on his own mother, but Violet had had enough from everyone, including Robert.

"Sybil," she said as calmly as she could. "What do you have in mind?"

"Mama, this is hardly—" Robert tried to cut in, but Violet held up her hand to stop him speaking.

"No. She must have something in mind. Otherwise, she wouldn't have summoned him here tonight."

"Thank you, Granny," Sybil answered more quietly, taking a deep breath. "Yes, we do have a plan. Tom's got a job on a paper. I'll stay until after the wedding; I don't want to steal their thunder."

Sybil looked over at Matthew who gave her a small, sad smile. His young cousin appreciated the gesture more than he knew.

Sybil continued, "After that, I'll go to Dublin—"

Cora's audible gasp caught Sybil off guard. "To live with him?" Cora asked, her eyes bugging out of her head in fear. "Unmarried?"

Sybil swallowed the fury that her mother's presumption sparked in her and said, "I'll live with his mother while the bans are read. And then we'll be married . . ."

At this Sybil looked up at Tom, who had been watching her since she'd begun talking. She smiled and felt warm inside—the fear, the doubt, the anger, all of it giving way to the love she felt and that had seen her through so much already.

". . . and I'll get a job as a nurse," she finished finally.

Violet pursed her lips in disapproval. "What does your mother make of this?" She asked Tom.

"If you mmmust know, um, she thinks, um, she thinks we're very foolish."

Violet couldn't stop herself from chuckling. "So at least we have something in common." She looked Tom up and down, really seeing who he was perhaps for the first time in his many years of service to the family. "And what of your stammer?"

"It, um, um, it comes and goes. I've, um, I . . . I've mostly grown out of it, but, um, um, sometimes—"

"It comes out when you're nervous?" Matthew finished for him.

Tom nodded. "It's never stopped me from, um, making a living."

Matthew was about to ask something else, when Robert, who'd gone to lean on the hearth to compose himself, turned back around to face the couple.

"I won't allow it! I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!"

With that Sybil had it. "You can posture it all you like, Papa, it won't make any difference!"

"Oh, yes, it will," he responded menacingly.

"How? I don't want any money and you can hardly lock me up until I die!" Sybil took a breath, then looked around the room again—the people she loved most in the world, the ones for whom she'd considered giving him up , all of them unwilling to question why the family's position in society should come before her happiness.

_What else is there to say? _Sybil thought glancing at Tom. _They are never going to understand._

"I'll say goodnight," she added, no longer angry, but resolute as ever, "but I can promise you one thing, tomorrow morning nothing will have changed."

She turned to go and with a quiet, "Tom," beckoned him to follow her.

**XXX**

**Yorkshire, 1913**

_"Mr. Branson?" _

_Tom turned from where he was reading the newspaper, leaning against the bench in the garage. It was Anna, the head housemaid._

_He hadn't been at Downton Abbey more than a week, but he'd already knew her to be a kind, thoughtful person—much more so than the uppity lady's maid whose face seemed to have frozen into a scowl and who enjoyed pointing out just about every night how "incorrect" it was for the chauffeur to sup with the house staff and continued to do despite Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, having made it clear that it was all right. _

_"Yes?" He said straightening and setting the paper aside._

_"Mr. Carson said to tell you Lady Sybil is ready. You can drive up to the front."_

_Tom nodded and walked over to the hook on the door where he'd hung his jacket and cap. "Shall we pick up something from the dressmaker for you?" He asked teasing._

_Anna laughed. "Whatever she's likely to buy might end up in my hands eventually—actually, it's Lady Sybil, so . . ."_

_"What? She doesn't like given her extra clothes to the servants?"_

_"Oh, no!" Anna said. "I don't mean that at all. Quite the opposite. Lady Sybil is a bit more . . ." Anna trailed off as if looking for the right word. "Well, _conscientious_ about what she has. Lady Edith and Lady Mary rarely keep a dress longer than one season, but Lady Sybil's more likely to keep one until she's worn it out—well, not worn out, perhaps, but at least, when she's finished with it, it doesn't still look brand new. She's a bit less inclined to ostentation. Not to say that—" _

_"It's OK, Anna," Tom said with a smile. "I know what you mean. And don't worry. I don't believe you capable of saying an unkind word about anyone."_

_"I'm perfectly capable when the circumstances are right," she said with a smirk, turning to go._

_Tom watched her go for a moment and thought about what she'd said about Lady Sybil._

Conscientious.

_It was an interesting word, and an apt one going by what Tom had seen and heard of the young woman in his first few days here. _

_That very morning, having asked Carson permission to take a book while the family were still having breakfast, Tom had spent several minutes perusing the shelves in the library. He finally settled on Maria Edgeworth's Castle Rackrent for a bit of home. Tom was rarely one to go for novels over history, politics or philosophy, but knowing his selections would likely be monitored, Tom had figured he'd not make waves, at least not at the start. There would be plenty of time to play to the audience._

_As he was writing the book's title into the ledger, he'd noticed the title in the entry just above._

The Subjection of Women by John Stuart Mill

_Then, he'd noticed the name next to it._

Sybil Crawley

_Thinking of Lady Grantham's remark to her about women's rights in the motor the previous afternoon, Tom started at the name a good long time. Then, unable to abate his curiosity, he turned back to the previous page, to find her previous choice._

Middlemarch

_Then the previous._

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court

_Then the previous._

Jane Eyre

_And so on until he'd almost gotten to the front of the ledger. By themselves none of the books, save perhaps Mill, necessarily stood out from the rest as being of particular interest to Tom. But in aggregate, they created the outline of an intriguing person who seemed interested in things he'd have considered beyond the purview of a daughter of the aristocracy. She seemed, for lack of a better term, _liberal_. _

_Tom laughed at the memory now, as he shrugged on his coat and hopped into the motor. He was about to start it when he noticed, below where he'd set the newspaper, some pamphlets he'd picked up on the way into Downton, from some suffragettes passing out literature on their cause in the train station in York. They'd been delighted to find a young man who supported their ideas, and Tom had been happy to have interesting reading material for the ride into Downton._

_Before he knew what he was doing, he jumped out of the motor and grabbed them._

_A few minutes later, he was at the front of the house, where Lady Sybil Crawley was waiting._

_He came around to open the door for her, and she offered a small smile as he held his hand out to help her in. When he opened his own door again, he noticed the pamphlets again. He didn't notice the now rather hurried beating of his heart._

_It wasn't until they were driving through the village that he thought about how to engage her so he could give her the pamphlets. He glanced back at her then looked ahead again. He opened his mount to speak several times, but every possible thing he could say seemed to get stuck in his throat._

Excuse me, Lady Sybil?

Pardon me, milady?

Lady Sybil, do you have a moment?

_He shook his head, trying to shake the sudden case of nerves._ Best not say anything, _he thought_, lest I start stammering again and make myself look the fool. _Tom looked down at the pamphlets. _What's worse, a man with a stammer or a woman without a vote?

_He took a breath._

_"Will you have your own way, do you think? With the frock?"_


	5. Chapter 5

_Final chapter! Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing this story. This is one of my favorite prompts that someone has sent me. _

_I hope you enjoy the ending!_

* * *

As soon as Sybil walked out of the room and into the main hall, the house felt oppressive to her. As she walked, her feet picked up speed and by the time she was at the front door, she was practically running. Tom was on her heels, no more eager than she was to stay inside any longer than necessary. Once outside, Sybil ran for about thirty yards before she realized she had no destination. She stopped so suddenly that Tom ran into the back of her.

Feeling him against her, Sybil turned in his arms, wrapped her own around him and buried her face into his neck. Tom held her tightly for several long minutes. Eventually, he felt her grip loosen. They both pulled back and their lips met in a kiss blessed by the tears streaming from both of their eyes, tears of joy and relief.

Pulling away out of breath, Sybil looked into Tom's eyes, something like wonder and curiosity in her expression. "You stammer. _You_!?"

Tom looked down and smiled shyly. He stepped back a bit but kept his hands on her waist. "It was more pronounced when I was a child," he said quietly. "Hardly ever comes out now. In fact, before tonight, it hadn't in years."

"I'll say," Sybil responded with a smile. "I never would have guessed."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should have. I mean, tonight of all nights—it was probably the shock of your life."

"It's all right," she said, running her thumb over his cheek. "I'll admit it was odd . . . you usually speak with such confidence. But I'm not angry you didn't tell me. Stolen moments—even years of them, as we've had—might suffice for earnest declarations of love, but not our entire life story. There are things about _me_ you don't know."

"Like what?"

"I couldn't possibly tell you everything now, in one night," she said teasingly. "Besides, won't finding out be half the fun of married life?"

Tom leaned down and kissed her again. "Well, I look forward to all of it."

Sybil pulled him into another hug. "Perhaps we should go to the cottage."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm not ready to go back in that house," Sybil said looking back toward the door from whence they'd come and into a place that no longer felt like home to her. Looking at him again she added, "And I'd like to stay with you a bit longer tonight. Now that they know, what's the use in sitting in my room alone and only wishing we were together."

"Your father may send Mr. Carson and Thomas to toss me out," Tom said with an uneasy laugh. "And if they find you there, they'll assume—"

"Let them assume what they like! My parents obviously already have."

"I'm sorry for that," Tom said with a sigh.

"I suppose I should be too," Sybil said, "but the truth is I don't care."

Tom looked at her pointedly.

"Oh, fine, I'll not want them to hate me _forever_. But honestly, Tom, I gave them the benefit of the doubt for years, and for what? If they won't trust me, then I won't waste tears wishing they would. Not anymore. I said my piece and I have a clear conscience."

Her words and conviction stirred his heart. Tom leaned over and kissed her again. After, he wrapped his arm around her, and together they walked to the chauffeur's cottage.

As soon as they were inside, Tom went over to the fire. He stirred the dying embers and added a log. Sybil watched from just inside the door with a beaming smile, as he went into his room and came back with his jacket off and holding a blanket, a bottle of Irish whisky and a small glass.

"I only have one glass," he said handing it to her, "but I thought we could toast the occasion of our official engagement."

Sybil giggled as he poured a small amount into the glass and handed it to her; then, Tom lifted the bottle toward her so she would clink it.

"To us," she said.

"To us," he repeated.

They clinked bottle to glass and drank. Feeling bold, Sybil turned up her glass to drink the whisky in one go. Surprised by its strength she came up coughing, but still held her glass up for another.

Tom, laughing, pulled her over to a spot on the rug in front of the fire. After taking their shoes off, they sat down on the floor and nestled into each other on the floor, wrapping the blanket around themselves. Tom poured more of the whisky into the glass, and the two passed it back and forth, sipping it and drawing warmth from the fire and each other.

After several minutes of contented silence, Sybil said, "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Did you not tell me about your stammer because you were afraid it would . . . make a difference or matter to me somehow?"

Tom sighed. "No, it was nothing like that."

"Does your mother know you didn't tell me? Is that why she thinks I'll change my mind?"

The mention of his mother made Tom laugh, as he thought of Sybil spending the rest of her life trying to please a woman for whom the Virgin Mary would not suffice. "Mam has been over-protective of me my whole life, to a rather suffocating degree. She's always thought that it was her job to shield me from duress or . . . well, everything really. Caitlin used to be like that, but eventually she realized I needed to be allowed to take risks and face the aftermath on my own. My mother, on the other hand, came to second-guess every decision I ever made. I love her dearly, but in all honestly, love, she would distrust _any_ girl I brought home—the fact that you're English and my employer's daughter just makes it easier for her."

Tom took a small sip of whisky and continued, "I didn't know the stammering could come back so . . . um, with such . . . well, so decidedly. I guess I really thought it was behind me and there was no point in saying anything."

"For what it's worth it wouldn't have changed anything—I mean, it _doesn't_. You know that, right?"

"I do."

"Would you have told me eventually?"

"Well, when we get to Dublin, I'm sure Caitlin and my brothers will be eager to shower you with silly stories from my childhood, so you'd have learned of it eventually."

Sybil laughed. "I look forward to it."

"I'm sorry," Tom said quietly.

"Tom, you don't need to apologize. I understand why you didn't tell me—"

"No, I mean . . . I'm sorry it came out like that . . . in front of your family."

Sybil sighed. "I'm afraid it wouldn't have made any difference for them. Even if you spoke with the elocution of a king, they would still disapprove. And they would still make judgmental assumptions about our behavior."

"I know, but I really wanted to put my best foot forward . . . for _you_."

"What makes you think you didn't?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Sybil, don't say that—"

Sybil shifted, so she was no longer laying back against him, but opposite him and looking into his face. "Tom, the man you were up there is the man I want to marry. I don't care that you stammered your way through it. If anything, knowing this about you and that you overcame it makes me love you more."

Tom shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "OK, don't say _that_."

Sybil looked at Tom curiously. "Why not?"

"Because it's . . . " Tom paused, trying to find the right words. "Sybil, stammering is an emotionally debilitating and humiliating condition. I wish I'd never had to endure it, and certainly I wish I hadn't had to deal with it tonight. It isn't something to be endeared by."

"So you'd prefer that I hate you for it? For not telling me?"

Tom sighed. "No."

Sybil reached out to take his hand. "Then what?"

"I don't want this to change how you think of me. I'm me. _Just _me. The fact that I had trouble speaking as a child . . . I don't want that to singularly define who I am anymore than my having worked as a chauffeur. I know I sound capricious, maybe deep down, that's why I didn't tell you, but it's important that you see me as _me_, not just as someone who overcame a stammer. Does that make sense?"

Sybil smiled. "It does. But I do love everything that makes you who you are—even the things that embarrass you and the things I don't know about yet."

Looking into her eyes, Tom breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like a weight had been lifted. "And to think that all that love would still be only half as much as what I feel for you."

Sybil moved back into his arms so they could kiss, and they did so for several minutes. When she pulled away, she looked into his eyes for a long moment. "You don't stammer around me. You haven't since we left the house. Why do you suppose that is?"

"Because you're you."

"Just because you're with me?"

"It was the same with my family when I was young. At home, it didn't disappear completely, but it was much better than at school."

Sybil shifted so she was sitting on his lap, arms around his shoulders. She began running her fingers through his hair. "It's a marvelous thing, the human brain."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, it controls so much of what we do without us ever putting thought to it—breathing, the beating of our heart, our reflexes, like pulling your hand away from a hot flame, for example. You were born with something a bit off in there with regard to your ability to speak, and still, as you got older your brain obviously found a way to compensate for that. But the brain controls our emotional reactions as well. And tonight there were so many feelings—and the corresponding chemicals and fluids and such—coursing through it, through you, that it got a bit overwhelmed and for a moment you couldn't both speak and feel everything at the same time."

Tom stared at her in wonder.

"What?" she asked shyly, when her eyes met his.

"You're far too clever to be just a nurse."

Sybil blushed.

"I'm serious. When I was a child, my mother took me to see several doctors to see what was wrong and ask if something could be done. None of them came up with anything so intelligent or empathetic as what you just said. I can't begin to imagine how much better she or I would have felt just hearing that."

"Doctors don't know everything."

"But none would so quick to admit that as you."

Sybil bit her lip. She knew what he was insinuating. They'd discussed the possibility, but it wasn't something she'd allowed herself to consider seriously. Not yet.

"Well," she said, coming in for another kiss. "We're not married yet. Let's go for one dream at a time."

**XXX**

**Ireland, 1926**

Six-year-old Susan Branson, already dressed in her nightgown, was jumping up and down in front of the fire, holding her father's copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer above her head.

"Da, can I be the one to read tonight, _please_?"

Sybil smiled as she walked into the sitting room with her newborn, Colin, in her arms. "Darling, you read to your sister and granny all afternoon. Aren't you tired?"

"Not in the slightest, obviously," Tom said with a laugh, coming in behind his wife, holding two-year-old Saoirse, who was already half asleep.

Sybil sat down on the sofa and adjusted the pillows around her to begin to nurse Colin. Once she was settled and the baby happily latched on and feeding, Tom laid Saorsie on the sofa, with her head next to Sybil.

Tom took the book from his eager daughter and sat down on the armchair across from his wife and two younger children.

"How about we take it in turns," he said as Susan climbed onto his lap for the family's nightly ritual.

"May I go first?" She asked.

"Yes, you may," Tom said opening the book. "Now where were we?"

"Chapter five," Susan answered.

He pulled the book open to the book mark and held it open for Susan to read.

She cleared her throat dramatically, which caused both Tom and Sybil to laugh, and began, "Chapter V, The Pinchbug and His Prey. About half past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and p—what's that word, da?"

"Presently."

"OK . . . and presently the people began to gather . . ."

Tom's eyes went to Sybil's, who was watching Colin as he nursed. She still glowed with the happiness of new motherhood—even if it was her third time. Then, Tom's eyes went to Soarsie, who was asleep and, somehow, smiling. Then, he pressed a kiss against Susan's head and focused on her reading.

When Tom Branson had wished for a life in which he would read to his children every night, he didn't guess that it would be even better when one of them would read to him.


End file.
